


Pancakes

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Bucky Barnes Finds a Friend [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Comics - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And Sam Wilson stress-fries chicken, Bad Days Equal Food, Breakfast, Bucky Barnes also finds a Boyfriend, Bucky Barnes finds a Friend, Early Morning Hunger, GIANT KITCHEN FLOOR, M/M, No one likes carpets, Pancakes, Steve Rogers can cook, Tony Stark is a Nutjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Clint wake up for pancakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

“Wake up, sunshine.”

Bucky groans and rolls onto his stomach. There is no way in hell he’s getting up for anything short of a million dollars and his own private jet. “C’pla min…”

Above him, Clint whines in that sleepy way that always tickles Bucky’s fancy. “C’mon, it’s pancakes. I can smell ‘em.”

So can Bucky, but pancakes a jet do not make. “Don’ wanna.” He throws his arm back and smacks his boyfriend’s hand off his ass. “G’way.”

“But pancakes!” Clint leans down and buries his nose into the curve of Bucky’s gleaming shoulder. “And syrup. Not the fake shit, either. Hot. Buttery. Pancakes.”

“Don’ care.” Bucky wiggles further into the pillows. In retaliation, Clint lays full on top of his back. “You’re a sack o’ fuck’n bricks, shithead. Gitoffame!” All that warmth is waking him up in all the right ways, though. He can’t fight forever. He sighs into the down pillow in front of his face. “Shithead.”

“You already called me that, Barnes.” Clint’s hands smooth up his bare sides, then back down to his boxer waistband. Rough archer fingers worm into Bucky’s soft spots, and he can’t help the giggle that escapes into the pillow. Clint chuckles in victory. “Good _morning_.”

“Like emphasizing it will make it better, ass.” Bucky finally wiggles and bucks enough to dislodge Clint, then snakes over onto his back beneath him. “Though I don’t mind the view.”

Clint laughs. This time it’s the stupid cackle that makes his eyes crinkle and his whole face look years younger. “Course you don’t. Can’t beat it. Now, get up. I want pancakes.” He bops Bucky on the forehead, and Bucky’s starting to think that Clint’s doing this deliberately.

“Alright, alright, you loaf of concrete, I’m up.” Clint heaves himself off the bed. “You should be detained for having this much damned energy in the morning, y’know that?“ Bucky sits up only to have a face full of Lucky. “Christ almighty, get off the bed you one-eyed mutt!” He spits hair out of his mouth and Lucky licks a stripe up the side of his face, getting his ear. “Gross.”

“Lucky, don’t be mean.” Clint throws a shirt at Bucky and pulls his own on. “Dress yourself, dude.”

“I’m trying to, but your dog is trying to make out with me _stoppit dog_!” Bucky finally pushes Lucky off the side and laughs at the thump. “He’s also a sack of bricks. ‘Bout as agile as one.”

“For that, he gets a whole pizza tonight, you mean man. Pushin’ puppies out of beds, for shame!” Outside the room, Little Shit begins her morning caterwaul routine. Clint huffs. “And your cat is trying to summon every evil spirit she can.”

“She’s a cat. She’s allowed to call upon the dark forces to do her bidding in the war against potted petunias.” Bucky shrugs into his shirt. “Should we bother with pants?” He watches, bemused, as Clint contemplates the question.

That’s one of the things he absolutely loves about this man; no matter the question, no matter how silly or serious, Clint Barton will give it his utmost attention, no matter the situation. Middle of an invasion, the man will answer a question Natasha had posed to him hours or days before - not because he’d forgotten, but because he’d been working on that one question the entire time.

One memorable example of how Clint’s brain works happened a few weeks ago.  While resting on his chest after a marathon sex session that left them both drenched and sated during a wicked thunderstorm, Clint suddenly reached for his cell phone and called Tony Stark. Bucky, suitably upset over this, grumbled under his breath when Tony answered his phone. Clint muttered “Sixty-four divided by x and multiplied with b will probably solve that” into the mouthpiece and tossed the phone on the floor after taking the battery out. Bucky was so confused he’d forgotten to stay angry. Clint promptly fell asleep tucked under his chin, so he didn’t bother with it any longer. That is, until His Highness Tony Fucking Stark showed up on their doormat at eight a.m. the next morning with a box of donuts and two tickets for the theater. “I don’t know how the hell he did it, but he figured it out. Man’s a genius, and I don’t even know how or why. Good catch. Feed him and take him to something good.”  

While the present question isn’t a schematic or a equation or even remotely difficult, Clint still gives it due attention. With a shrug, he tosses his jeans to the side. “Naw, it’s breakfast. Boxers is acceptable.”

“Never did find out what Tony was trying to solve.” Bucky mutters to himself as he scoops up his phone and cigarettes, then follows him out the door.

Clint looks about him, doing a quick scan of the hall and living room before shooting him a look. “What?”

Bucky glances up from his weather app. “Oh, nothing. Just that math problem you solved for him.” Because if Bucky loves Clint for his attention and his accuracy and nose kisses and the way Clint whispers his name just as he clenches hard around Bucky’s cock, then he loves Clint all the more for his memory. And right on cue -

“Oh, that.” Clint waves his hand and heads to the front door. Little Shit quits with the demon summoning and leaps onto his shoulder as he passes her perch on the couch. She’s gotten much bigger and fluffier and oranger, somehow. Steve thinks she might be a Maine Coon. If she is, they are all fucked. “I looked over his shoulder at some schematic or something he was working on, and he shouted abuse and an equation at me. I think he was pissed at it. Just needed a fresh pair of eyes, is all.” Clint holds the door for Lucky and Bucky.

“So you just - what? Solved a random equation?”

“Took me a couple weeks, since I sort of dropped out of school, but yeah.” Clint shrugs. “What, like it’s hard?”

“I’m never letting you watch Legally Blonde ever again.” Bucky cuffs him on the head and turns to lock the door. “Ever.”

Clint laughs again, and Bucky has to kiss that sound out of him. Immediately. They stay like that until Little Shit buries a single claw into Clint’s shoulder and Lucky bumps into Bucky’s knees.

Bucky snorts. “Seems the animals are hungry for pancakes, too.”

They manage to get to the stairs without tackling each other again. Bucky still prefers stairs as an egress point and Clint has fought too many people in elevators to feel comfortable in them, so Tony kept the stairs for them. After another quick kiss, they make their way down the three flights to the new new kitchen...floor.

Story time. Tony found out that both Clint and Bucky actually enjoy cooking and baking after an entire week of gourmet dinners, brunches, second breakfasts and enough cupcakes and bread to feed at least half the homeless in New York. He also found out that Sam Wilson stress-fries chicken like a beast. So what did the billionaire playboy philanthropist do with this information? He went completely batshit about getting every new-fangled appliance and cooking utensil for the Tower. Industrial-grade ovens and cooktops and a huge walk-in fridge and freezer - the works. Now they have an entire floor dedicated to cooking in all its forms, and Bucky has decided that Tony Stark is a complete nutjob. They are also in a never-ending supply of fried chicken thanks to Sam being an official Avenger and official “babysitter for all you crazy fucks” and the nifty new pressure fryer installed last week. And when Clint and Bucky and Sam are all bored/stressed/hungry at the same time? Smorgasbord. An orgy of food. Hog Heaven. Tony has threatened to register the floor as an actual restaurant and start charging people to be fed by the Avengers’ in-house chefs. Instead, whatever doesn’t get licked off plates by animals or Thor or Steve gets donated to at least five homeless shelters a week. Tony is still happy, and is now threatening to open a soup kitchen and make Bucky cook for it.

Bucky might be alright with this. Might make his therapist happy, at any rate.

But now, as they walk through the back door to the floor, both Clint and Bucky stop dead in their tracks.

“Bruce, please don’t hate me, but there might be chocolate chip pancakes in that stack. We all know you hate those but I couldn't help myself. Had to make 'em.” Steve is the one at the cooktop. Steve. Rogers. The man that has been known to burn water. The one that set an entire stove on fire. Twice.

Bruce hums around his mouthful of warm pancake. “Was that sarcasm I heard, Rogers?”

“I’m working on it.”

Bucky stares. This isn’t computing into what he remembers about his scrawny-cum-beefcake dork. “When the hell did you learn how to cook?”

Steve turns around as if he didn’t hear them tromping down the stairs from two floors up. “I live on my own, Buck. Why wouldn’t I?”

“The amazing take-out places around your house?” Clint strides in, Lucky on his heel and Little Shit on his shoulder. He inspects the mountain of pancakes situated in the middle of the table. “Why would you want to cook when you have Thai like right down the street? Chicken tikki? And McDonalds, c'mon man. You are a bachelor, Steve. Time to live like it.”

“Ha, ha.” Steve turns back to his griddle. “Hey, Sam texted about an hour ago. He says there’s more chicken to be had tonight. He and Natasha had a very...let’s say interesting...day down in Miami-Dade.”

“She texted me. When will Richards learn?” Clint plucks a plain pancake from the middle of the pile and tosses it to Lucky. Bruce looks up from his plate of chocolate chip pancakes. “Hi there. Enjoying yourself?”

“Mumbai.” Bruce mutters around a mouthful of fluffy goodness.

“Ah. Yeah, that place can be trying.” Bucky plops down beside him. “So, I’m to take it that Steve attempted to use sarcasm when mentioning your distaste of his pancakes?”

“Hey, I can use sarcasm!” Steve flipped a hot cake at Bucky’s head, but is denied victory when Bucky snatches it out of the air with his left hand. Little Shit launches off Clint’s shoulder and tears into it.

“No, no, careful, you’ll burn your tongue and I’ll laugh at you.” Bucky wrestles with Little Shit. She growls and claws at him, trying to keep him away from the pancake. “Christ, you are a demon cat! Fine, burn yourself. Don’t whine for an ice cube, then.” He abandons the pancake and leans back to let his kitten eat. “Dumb shit.”

“How does a cat whine for an ice cube, anyway?” Clint plates up a stack and slides it across the floor for Lucky, who tucks in like a man starved. Well, man. Dog.

Bucky shakes his head. “Are we gonna eat, or did you wake me up from a nice dream to feed your damned dog?” Steve snorts, and Bruce grins around another mouthful. Clint blushes. Bucky realizes what that sounded like and throws his hands up in defense. “Oh, no. No, no, not that sort of - get your minds out of the gutters!” He shoves to his feet, stealing the plate stacked high with - “How many kinds of pancakes did you make, anyhow?”

“Any kind Bruce wants. Apple cinnamon is coming up next.”

“What’s...in here?” Bucky pokes at the pile and starts building a stack on a clean plate, putting butter pats between every couple.

“Chocolate chip -”

“Nope.” Bruce tears back into his plate. “I took them all.”

“So that’s a negative on the chocolate chip. We have plain, blueberry, banana - like, straight up banana. Gluten-free and wheat-free, just banana and egg - orange, pinapple, peanut butter, and carrot cake.”

Bucky blinks. “Wha -” He looks down at the stacks. He looks back up at Steve. “How the fu - how long have you been flipping batter?”

“Couple hours. Tony’s been by twice, once with Rhodey in tow. Poor fella.” Steve pours batter from a bowl onto the griddle. The kitchen starts smelling like the Jewish bakery from Bucky’s memories, and he smiles. Steve looks over his shoulder and smiles right back, and everything is fine. He lifts the plate in his hands in thanks and nearly trips over Little Shit on his way back to the exit. Clint follows, Lucky on his heels. 

“Probably will be back for supper, then. Love me some chicken, let me tell ya.” Bucky grins and waits for Clint to open the door. “Later, asshole.”

“Prick!” Steve shouts after them, and Bucky snorts. Clint steals a pancake off the top of the stack. “Mmm, peanut butter.”

“How does he do this? He’s hidden this ability to make things for how long now?” Bucky shakes his head as they head back to their apartment. “Pancakes, really?”

“Who knew?” Clint leans around him and opens the door for him again. “There you go. Pancakes. Go eat.”

Bucky stops. “Hold on. You.” He points at Clint. “ _You_ woke me up. _You_ wanted pancakes.”

“Yes. I had three pancakes. I’m good.” Clint grins and waves him inside. “Go on, eat!”

“But.” Bucky digs his heels into the carpet neither one of them likes because they can’t hear someone walking on it. “No, hold on, wait.”

“Someone in this relationship has the metabolism of a medium-sized city, and it isn’t me.” Clint pokes him in the flesh shoulder and takes the pancake stack from him, only to set it down on the coffee table. Little Shit starts making inroads on it. “Eat before your cat dies of consumption, you know she eats until she rolls away from her bowl.”

Bucky stares at the massive stack. “I - but I grabbed for both of us -”

“Oh, God. Bucky, your stomach woke me up, okay? I was half out of bed with a hand on my bow before I realized it wasn’t a damned alien or some shit making all that racket. You are hungry, eat!” Clint snorts, picks up a pancake, and tears a corner off. He shoves it at Bucky. “Or I’ll feed you.”

Bucky grins. “Can I eat it off you?”

Clint’s smile slowly disappears. “Uh…” It’s replaced with something darker. “I...think we still have that whipped cream from the fateful “Tony Stark Teaches Everyone How to Actually Drink Godiva Liqueur” movie night.”

“You said something about real Vermont maple syrup.”

“I...uh...assumed Steve had some?”

Bucky suddenly feels very, very hungry. “Took it off the table.” He waggles the bottle in his hand. “You never said Vermont. Lay down.”

Clint strips off his shirt. “On the floor? But the carpet - “

“That’s getting ripped up and replaced with shitty linoleum that crackles when you walk on it.”

Clint sighs, and Bucky isn’t sure if it’s from relief or lust. Looking down and seeing Clint lowering himself down to his knees and glancing up through his lashes, Bucky decides that it's definitely lust.

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